


Descent

by Transistance



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Dreams, Gen, Grim Reapers, Memories, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-06
Updated: 2016-07-06
Packaged: 2018-07-21 23:48:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7409989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Transistance/pseuds/Transistance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dreams reflect what the conscious mind prefers not to touch, and all too often Ronald finds himself falling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Descent

**Author's Note:**

> Cheery fics, cheery fics, I'm full of cheery fics

Ronald Knox dreams of flying.

The wind whistles across his outstretched fingertips; furls the tails of his coat up behind him. The air is dark, the night peppered with stars – like glints on crystalline glass, he thinks, or fake jewellery buffed up to a diamond shine. It's been a long evening; the party had dragged long past the turn of midnight, until the girls had given up, until the slow bustle of the hall had drained. He'd taken a walk, because he couldn't risk crawling back to his own hovel-home early enough to run into his parents, and have to endure their spitting mockery of the faux-suit he'd managed to beg from a pawn shop. And he'd wanted the fresh air after the stifle of the company. There isn't much fresh air on the streets, though, ever, so he'd indulged his old habit of seeking out staircases and trying to touch the sky in lieu of real achievement.

He'd found a beautiful panoramic view of London's dull streets, lit with orange pinpricks that sought and yet failed to mirror the stars, and he'd just kept walking.

Ronald Knox dreams of falling.

His arms fail to catch anything, although they do not claw or grasp at the peace. The building is high, high enough that he has time to appreciate the canopy below. Indeed time seems to slow, dilating even as he accelerates back toward the Earth that he's trying to leave. Had he intended this when he'd set out that night, adjusting too-tight cuffs without links and trying to make the cheap watch on his left wrist hold up for _just one more date, please_ – no. Does he want it now, the upcoming oblivion, the sinful, certain release?

_Yes_.

He closes his eyes fragments of a heartbeat before he hits the ground, but is not rewarded in the impact. It's supposed to be clean, dammit; he's supposed to snap his neck or bust his skull or otherwise just _die_ , not to feel his limbs shatter and his ribs crack and his heart flush into overdrive. There isn't supposed to be any of this _agony_ , this immense, squalling pain. He's supposed to be dead. There's blood in his mouth, buckets of it, and he can't draw the breath to scream – can't move any part of his body without being overwhelmed. And yet still he does not die.

Even through the haze Ronald hears the footsteps, which gives him cause to squeeze his eyes more firmly shut and pray – although he's not sure for what. For the stranger to shout for help, or aid him themselves? Or simply put him out of his misery? _Oh please, please, please_ -

What does happen is nothing of the sort. Something prods him in his split stomach, and then a very bored voice in a very unsympathetic tone says, “Ronald Knox, get up.”

He can't, _obviously_ , because he's just jumped off a fucking building and is lying in a pool of his own blood. Why the owner of the voice doesn't recognise this is unclear, but when he fails to respond he receives a rather more forceful nudge in the side. It isn't quite a kick, but promises that some measure of patience is being tested greatly. “ _Stand up_ ,” they order. _He_ orders. The voice belongs to a man and that man ludicrously expects – what? For Ronald to push himself up on crippled arms; force himself upright on splintered legs? He must be mad.

Then again, he's not the one who just walked off a rooftop on a whim.

There's a sigh, a brief and exasperated murmur of something that sounds like _honestly_ , and then there's a hand clamped about Ronald's wrist, pulling him up slowly as though he's a joint of meat rather than a fully grown man. Once high enough he's set upon his feet and stands there stupidly, lilting slightly, wondering when the fog suddenly got so dense. Whomever's beside him is a blur, all dark clothes and green headlamp eyes. _That's not natural_ , remarks part of Ronald's brain. It's the same part that recognises that he still should not be able to stand up. He glances down, warily, and finds what looks like a rather ruined body burst out over the pavement. He glances up again, and Death is watching him.

“That wasn't so hard, now, was it?” the other man says, without blinking, without moving those awful glowing eyes. They're not street-lamps or stars – they're acid, burning, obscene. His voice is stale and monotone. “Come on. You're late as it is.”

Ronald's throat is dry, and he wishes dearly that he could see a little better to make out the expression on that pale face. “Where're we going?” he asks, more hoarsely than intended. Then again, it's a miracle that he can speak at all. “Late for what?”

The eyes roll, and then close for a moment as if he's steeling himself to deliver bad news. “Late for your induction to our ranks, which will take place far away from here. So if you will excuse the abruptness-”

“Wait,” Ronald gasps, as things begin to pile up in his head, all cramming and crying out for space on his tongue. “Wait – stop – have I – did I just kill myself?”

“Don't fret about that now,” the other replies in a tone devoid of reassurance. “It's done. You'll have plenty of time later to tie yourself in knots. For now all you must do is come with me.” What is maybe – hopefully – almost _certainly_ a black-clad hand is offered again, and taking it is really the only course of action that his scattered mind can find to take. He does so. The reaper sighs again, heavily, and when he pulls them both into a jump Ronald always, every night, wakes up.


End file.
